My 21st Birthday Shitshow

There comes a time in every fraternity man’s life in which they reach the glorious age where they can free-willingly indulge in the world’s supply of alcohol. Fuck yes it’s awesome, but there’s a learning curve to control the balance of your tolerance and the infinite black hole which you drunkenly believe your bank account to be. One night, I set out to the bars as an early 21-year-old and unbeknownst to me, I was going to reject reality and drink my way into a beyond blackout state of mind.

Although I can’t personally account for anything in this story, I know it to be true by my brothers, the bouncers who later recognized me, and spectators who had camera phones on hand to document the insanity.

With blackout setting in after a few hours of drinking at different places, I decided to move to another bar down the street, and the only logical way of getting there was to sprint. Fucking sprint. So I did just that, down the left lane of a two-way street. Who knows what happened at that bar, because my friends said I disappeared by myself before their arrival. I later arrived at a bar that everyone had migrated to, and wasn’t allowed in because I was “too drunk.” Needless to say, I somehow found my way into that bar 10 minutes later.

Apparently some time passed and I kept buying drinks there. I then went ahead and found my way into the women’s restroom and proceeded to use one of the toilets. Girls were, of course, screeching and yelling at the drunk guy who stumbled his way into their only place of guaranteed sanctity, and I was pulled out of the restroom by one of the girl’s boyfriends and placed back outside of the restroom. Whether I finished and put my junk back in my pants, I do not know.

More time passed and I subconsciously decided it was time to go home. And again, I would sprint home. Fucking sprint. The only thing standing between me and the house were the trails of sidewalks on campus and an endless sea of parking lots, which would turn out to be disastrous. I know this next part is true because the pain would cause me to regain consciousness, but only for a little bit. While sprinting as fast as I could in my boots and jeans (this comes into play later), I tripped on one of the cement parking barriers, ate shit, then dislocated my shoulder. After realizing my shoulder was in a completely different location, and I couldn’t move my arm properly, I got up, then continued running home.

Upon my arrival at the house, I was able to place my shoulder back into it’s rightful position, because of my past history of numerous shoulder dislocations in my years of rugby, then passed out in our front foyer. People later came around to find me with bloody torn-up jeans and a chunk of leather missing from my boots, just passed out on the floor. They took me into my room and put me on my couch, but I wasn’t done. My instincts from pledgeship kicked in, and my worn out, tattered body found the might to stand up and take off everything other than my bloody jeans, and I made my way upstairs to where the party was.

When I entered the large room, the party suddenly came to a near halt as everyone stared at the individual who had no soul in his eyes. I’ve been told my bloody, torn-up jeans were completely undone, and everyone was then well aware I was going commando, because that’s how I roll. I was fucking gone by this point. Once I realized I had the attention of the whole party, I proceeded to try and give a speech to everyone. I ended up not making any sense at all, and all the girls started taking their leave because of all the weird shit that came out of my mouth.

After the speech, I spotted my little brother and tackled him to the floor. Because of my state of mind at that point, wrestling him on fucking carpet sounded like a pretty good idea. After about 10 minutes of drunken, rage-fueled wrestling, my body was nearly done. I had acquired more blood on my jeans from severe carpet burns, received a black eye and chipped a small portion of a tooth off. I was carried back to my room once again, and this time stayed there.

If you can imagine the morning after, aside from the cuts, bruises, and open wounds…I felt like a fucking champ.